Saffina's Season (2 page)

Later, I knew, he’d recall my every lapse, every mis-stroke, then use them to set up an elaborate punishment, or whip me to within a whisker of climax and torment me till dawn by denying me for hours.

Now chatter and laughter sounded all around us. A crowd of pleasure seekers strolled past both sides of the carriage. It rocked alarmingly. Panic spurred me on.

I pulled away for a second, hauling in breath to whisper a plea. “Pull the blinds, sir. I beg you. Someone will see—”

“Too late. I warned you to be quick. We’re out of time.” He glared down at me as he fastened himself, his face grim.

“We’ll finish later.” He smiled again, curving his mouth into a cruel grin. “And you’ll learn the price of defiance.” He brushed my fingers with a light, playful kiss and stepped out of the carriage.

I watched him go, knowing my fate was sealed. We’d meet in the early hours, when the streets were quiet. Then his luxurious carriage would barely contain his passion or his insatiable need for my mouth.

I might regret this.

As he left the carriage, he looked back one last time, his face stern. “Don’t be late.”

With a curt nod to his coachman, he vanished into White’s, St. James’ most prestigious club.

I drew a sigh, already well aware how my own evening would end. I would throb and pulse, unsatisfied, while I made small talk with various titled dowagers and their catty protégées. After a long evening of polite chat, I would come back to pick him up. Then my torment would resume.

Back at our townhouse, he’d lead me upstairs. Once there, my tearful plea for privacy would earn slow, possibly painful, reprisals. And his need for my mouth and my body would consume him till morning, overriding my need for sleep, until he aroused me past bearing, and we clung to each other, thrust for thrust, then one or both of us surrendered to full satisfaction.

As the carriage turned riverward to the tamer delights of Lady Carstairs’ elegant soirée in Chelsea, I squirmed with frustration.

If only I could feel myself, grant the release he’d denied me all week. If only I dared break my word and give in to simple pleasure. But knowing how hard he found these times, I felt bound to keep my word. He felt spurned, uneasy, because he was denied all of me.

It was only fair that I should suffer too.

Lady Carstairs was a poor substitute for my stunning, skillful husband, but her parties were ultra-respectable and invitations much prized. Jacquard insisted I go to cement our social status. For the rest of the evening, the stilted chatter of Her Ladyship and her genteel guests must suffice until we met again in the dark privacy of his carriage.

If only I’d finished him.

And, in a flash, I knew he’d done that on purpose to make me feel bad about leaving him unsatisfied.

He knew I’d feel guilty.

I laughed out loud. How like him to leave me panting too. Impatience—and a fresh flare of arousal—rippled through me.

Just you wait, my lord. Just you wait.

* * * *

The soirée in Chelsea was worse than I’d feared. The company fairly bristled with gentility. As I walked in, all eyes fell on my stunning necklace—my diamonds, famed throughout Europe for their beauty and worth a fortune.

Lady Carstairs, her pinched face sour as a lemon, took my hand stiffly.

“Ah, Lady Endale. I see your husband still rustles up enough cash to deck you in splendor. Surprising, from what I hear of his passion for cards. How can he make his money, I wonder?”

I beamed around at the silent onlookers, no doubt hoping I’d blush and stammer out some feeble defense.

“These, ma’am?” I fingered the jewels absently. “My grandmother’s, as I’m sure you know. And His Lordship never talks to me of business. Is that how you spend
your
evenings? I thought I’d come to a party, not a bank.”

My hostess turned an ugly red and hastily backtracked. I noticed some of her more fashionable guests smirk behind their hands. It seemed the queen of the Chelsea set rarely lost face.

I sealed her shame by sparkling for the rest of the evening—even taking a turn about the room with her pompous ass of a husband, before glancing at the clock and taking my leave.

But it seemed her daughter had been primed for a parting shot. Lady Hornsea was middling pretty, save for her sharp nose and small eyes. As I made for the door, I heard her shrill bleat clearly over the music.

“Lor’, Mama, was that the Wilby girl? The child of that dreadful pair who sank at sea?”

I paused. The crowd grew quiet as I glanced back to make sure I’d heard her right. Lady Hornsea was staring at me with an open sneer. As I watched, she whispered to the dowager next to her and tittered.

I turned away, sickened. As I left, I heard whispers.

“Worth a fortune.”

“Her husband won’t touch a penny.”

“A wife with her own money? How shocking.”

“No good will come of it.”

Temper flaring, I swept grandly out.

My past was my own, but gibes still hurt. I saw my carriage already parked across the street.

The coachman and my footman were nearby, both turned away and talking quietly together. Neither spotted me.

Still fuming, I paused.
Should they see me like this?

I wanted to rage and shout. Instead, I slipped around the corner for a few moments to cool off.

It was dark in the shadows, out of sight of the street. I took several deep breaths to compose myself. All at once, bulky shapes loomed over me.

“Quick, grab ’er.”

Before I could shriek or lash out, rough hands snatched at my cloak and exposed my bosom. In the moonlight, my diamonds flashed fire.

“
Blimey.
Cop a load of these, lads. Hold her down. We’ll have ourselves some fun and get rich on the side.”

I opened my mouth to scream. Instantly a filthy hand clamped on my mouth. In vain I struggled. One powerful ruffian held me fast. Another reached for me, gloating.

Just then a shout rang out.

“Let her alone.”

At the same moment, a bundle of wooden struts crashed around in an arc, scattering the group. It swung back, knocking my assailant out of the way. The wood was balanced on the shoulder of a bearded man with wild eyes and a hungry look.

He snatched my arm.

“Hurry, milady. This way.”

Chapter Two

I stumbled after the man as he hauled me into the shelter of a shabby porch. He staggered a little under the weight of the bundle he’d used to fight off my attackers. I tried to pull away, but he scowled, gripping me harder.

“In here, milady, before they see you.” We tumbled through a doorway, and he slammed the door shut. Behind us, the men were still shouting.

One of them banged loudly on the door, cursing me for a whore.

Still breathless, I turned to fight off this new threat.

But my rescuer was looking down with an anxious expression.

“Forgive me, milady. I thought it best. You can hide here till they’ve gone. Why were you out there at this hour? Even Cheyne Walk gets rough types late at night.”

I shrank back. For all I knew, he was one of them, and this was a trap. “I’m joining my carriage, sir. It’s already close by. And I’ll thank you to let me go.”

“Not yet, milady. They’re ruffians—the worse for drink, by the sound of it. They’re still outside. Wait till they’ve gone. You can stay here in the hall, but you might be more comfortable upstairs. The hallway’s got vermin.”

I fought down a twitch of fear. I’d once been poor. I’d tried to forget, but I knew it when I smelled it.

I smelled it now. The stink of stale drink and unwashed bodies settled around me, thick and sour. Flinching away from the damp walls, I followed him up three flights of rickety stairs to a garret.

He dragged the wooden bundle behind him, refusing my offers to help. At the top he showed me into a lofty room, flooded with moonlight.

He lit a candle and glanced about with a wry smile. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I’ve only got cheap gin. I’ve not eaten for days. I spent the last of my money on this beauty.”

I looked around, curious. The dim light fell on a rough straw pallet, heaps of stained rags. As he talked he unfastened the bundle and quickly erected a new easel. The sour smell of his lodgings was less powerful here. It was overlaid with something stronger—turpentine and paint.

“Thank you, sir, I’ve eaten. You are an artist?”

He smiled, lifting his candle to show me his face. “Martin Lucas, ma’am, at your service. Sorry I startled you. And yes, I paint—or try to. It’s a hard life, as you see. I’m…between commissions at present.” He glanced out of the window. “Those ruffians have moved off now, if you want to leave. Your carriage is close by?”

“It can wait a moment. Can I see some of your work?”

For the next half hour, he showed me canvas after canvas, eyes shining.

“These are all in the Rubens style. And these”—he held up two canvases with large, misty scenes—“are more after the style of Mr. Turner, my hero. And how about this? Almost a Gainsborough, if you look from a distance.”

I knew little about art, save pictures in the grand houses Jacquard had shown me. To me these looked crude and simply painted, but the colors were fresh and the poses surprisingly frank.

My mind raced.
Why not commission my own portrait?

Jacquard’s birthday fell soon. I usually tracked down some trifle for him—a rare book for his library or a book of exotic lithographs from one of Piccadilly’s racier collectors.

Why not a picture of me? I could be as daring as I liked. He’d find it all the more amusing. No need to put it on open display. He had portraits enough in his many fine houses. This could be for his eyes alone.

What a jape.
But word would soon spread. I’d have to be careful how I chose the artist…

“I must go now. I’ll call by tomorrow, Mr. Lucas, if I may. Around ten? I need your advice.” I thanked him for his kind act and hurried downstairs.

In the street, I hurried over to our carriage, startled to see our coachman comforting Pérot, my footman. They seemed to be bent over something in Pérot’s great hands. “What’s amiss? Is he hurt?”

Blundering Pérot, once our friendly jailer, was always knocking things over.

“It’s a kitten, milady,” explained the coachman. “One of the women from the Carstairs’ place ’ad it in her muff. She threw it out. Lady Hornsea, it was. Pérot wants to keep it.”

“Can I have it for a bit?”

Pérot flinched as I took the kitten out of his massive hands.

“I’ll bring it back. I promise.”

I swept back up the steps with it nestling in my hands. At the entrance I gave my name once more to the footman.

“Her Ladyship, the Countess of Endale.”

The company grew quiet as I paused in the entrance to the salon, holding the kitten aloft. I whispered in the footman’s ear, and he straightened up to make an announcement.

“A message from Lady Endale. Lady Hornsea’s pussy has just been found in the street.”

A ripple of shocked laughter ran through the room, quickly dying away as Lady Carstairs glared around. Her daughter reddened. I whispered to the footman again.

This time he fought to keep a straight face.

“Her Ladyship’s coachman says Lady Hornsea’s pussy fell out of her muff. Lady Hornsea may collect her pussy from him at any time. Until then, he’ll take greatest care of it.”

Now the room burst out into a gale of laughter. I beamed innocently around, overjoyed at the mortified look on Lady Hornsea’s pert little face. I made a swift farewell curtsey then took the kitten back down to Pérot, who gathered it up with a grateful smile and handed me into the carriage.

I leaned out of the window. “Drive on to His Lordship’s club. We’re late.”

We drew up outside his club with a flourish, scattering the linkmen waiting to see gentlemen without transport back to their homes.

Jacquard’s dour look warned me I was in trouble.

“My lord? At last. Enjoy your evening? We made such a night of it in Chelsea.”

He slumped in the corner of the carriage, his glance cynical. “Why so late? Is my company so little to your taste? Or did the dowagers of Chelsea suit you better?”

I tried to make light of things.

“They were…a little stiff. But I picked up some gossip. The regent has a new mistress, they say. No one knows who she is. He’s keeping it secret.”

His look soured further. “I heard that too. Beware, Saffina. It may be just rumor. His roving eye is famous. Stay out of his reach. If he ever so much as touches you—”

I brushed my fingertip across his lips. “Whenever I’ve met him, I’ve found him charming and witty. He simply likes the company of ladies. And I seem to remember there was a time when your roving eye was famous too.”

Jacquard scowled. Sensing trouble, I tried a distraction. With a coy look, I drew closer. “We were interrupted earlier. Shall we continue?”

He stared moodily as I cautiously raised my skirts. Slowly, balancing as best I could against the jolting of the carriage, I straddled his lap and wound my arms around his neck.

“Your evening fell flat, sir? You seem out of sorts.”

He ran a finger down my cheek, his touch unbearably tender. At the same moment, I felt his other hand seize mine and push it down to his crotch. As I grasped him, his jutting manhood bulged between us. I fondled him gently, mapping his pride through the fabric, sure he must ache for relief.

I swiftly unfastened him and ran my hand over the hot, hard cock that emerged from his clothing and surged up between us. His glow of heat and the tension I felt in his soft, silky skin made me ache in sympathy. Keeping my hand firmly in place, I parted my lips and leaned back as he opened my cloak, wrenched down my neckline then buried his head deep in my breasts.

He drew in a shuddering breath and pulled me close, gripping me at the waist with one hand, the other shifting my skirts clear to get in position. Then he began to torment me with cruel, deliberate thrusts of his hot, eager cock against my most tender place, wide open and exposed now, his movements urgent and precise. In seconds I was on fire with hot, burning arousal, longing to take him in fully but dreading discovery.